Shocking Accuracy
by norepinephrine
Summary: The thing about experiments is that you can never quite predict how they'll end up...
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I've wanted to explore the chemistry between Rizzoli and Isles for a while now, and this is what I've come up with; I think the happy median is somewhere between friendship and true love...a mutual attraction. And it's my opinion that it wouldn't take more than a night with Jack, Sam, or Riesling to bring it to the surface. Also, sorry if my spacing is off; I'm never quite sure what'll look best in the format.  
>Disclaimer (Venn Diagram style): TNT owns R&amp;I. I do not. However, we both know drama.<p>

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><p>It had begun as an argument in the bar.<p>

"You have no idea what you're missing," Maura Isles tsked, withdrawing her wine glass from where it had sat halfway across the table as an offering to her friend. Rizzoli snorted.

"Please. I'm Italian. I've had plenty of wine in my day...it just never impressed me that much."

"But good wine is different! It can take years to learn to truly appreciate the bouquet, the consistency, the coloration-"

"Yeah, I don't think so; s'all the same to me," Rizzoli replied, beginning to peel the label off of her Sam Adams.

When her friend didn't respond, Rizzoli looked up to see that familiar expression: the look of Dr. Isles, Boston PD's prized Medical Examiner, weighing the situation and crafting a reply with a hefty dose of logic.

"Empirically speaking, you haven't even gathered enough data to make a scientific decision on the matter. Perhaps, instead of continuing a probably ill-advised argument, we should simply conduct a scientific experiment with the intention of redirecting your deduction."

Rizzoli tipped her head back and huffed. Ever the pragmatist. The sound of scribbling snapped her head back to the table, where Isles was excitedly writing a list of some sort on a napkin.

"We could even use it as a springboard to teach you all about the scientific method! There's defining the question, of course-"

At that, Rizzoli groaned and tried with all her Mediterranean-derived-might to cut her off.

"Look, Maura, if we're doing some sort of hoity-toity wine tasting that's already going to make me feel like a fish out of water-"

It didn't work. Isles kept right on talking, taking breaks only to order the pen not to stop working.

"-then the gathering of information and resources; no need for that though, I should have everything we need at my place-"

"-then we're sure as hell not going to turn it into some reoccurring nightmare of high school chemistry-"

"-then forming a hypothesis - you're going to hate that part, it has to be very precise - then the experiment, of course, then analysis-"

"Aaaand you're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?"

"-and lastly interpret, publish, and possibly even retest!" Isles grabbed her jacket from the edge of the table, knocking over what remained of Rizzoli's beer, much to the chagrin of the latter. "Come on! Every second we waste is another possible moment that we could get a homicide call, and I want to get started!"

The only word that Rizzoli could think of to describe Isles's exit strategy was a very un-doctorly one: 'prance'. The blatant joy Isles displayed at using her friend as a scientific guinea pig was the only thing that kept Rizzoli from refusing her outright; she hadn't seen her this excited in a while, as the onslaught of cases that always turned up around Halloween had kept them plenty busy. But that was last week, and Rizzoli had been looking forward to relaxing with a beer or three, a baseball game, and more sleep than she'd know what to do with...not eating cheese and discussing the bouquet of a Whatsit Valley Cabernet.

It didn't take long for them to reach Isles's place, and Rizzoli sank onto the sofa as Isles scoured several corners of the kitchen, retrieving various bottles and glasses and cheeses. Within minutes, she was ready, having lined up six bottles in front of Rizzoli and a wine glass with a gold rim. Rizzoli flicked it and was surprised when it rang out with a clear chime deserving of some romantic comedy wedding scene.

"Breaking out the fancy gear, huh? Mind telling me exactly what this experiment's going to consist of, _Professor_ Isles?"

Isles frowned slightly.

"I am not sure if your replacing of my medical appellation with that of a teaching one is a compliment or a joke."

"Little bit of both." Rizzoli said with a smirk, "But really, I'm all ears."

Isles shrugged, a motion that seemed as un-natural as the thought of Rizzoli in a tutu, but seemed to her like the appropriate response.

"I thought it would be interesting if you tasted each one and tried to guess which vintages were the more expensive ones."

"I thought you hated guessing."

"You're correct in that I don't think that guessing is practical, but incorrect in that I find the guessing of others to be quite amusing."

Rizzoli rolled her eyes. "In other words, you find me being wrong entertaining."

"Yes, exactly," Isles replied brightly. "Shall we get started?"

She poured each of them a glass from the first bottle, and although Rizzoli wrinkled her nose at the yellow-gold liquid, she did lift her glass to toast.

"Did you know that during the 17th century, it was believed that the sound of two glasses clinking would banish the devil," Isles rambled as Rizzoli drained half of the glass, "No, no, you're supposed to sip, slowly and delicately. How else are you going to gather enough data to consider your estimate?"

"Uh, I'm going to ask myself, 'Was that a fifty dollar gulp, or a seventy five dollar gulp?' and take it from there," Rizzoli replied, then added, "And since when has anything I've ever done been 'delicate'?"

"I suppose never...so what are your thoughts?"

Rizzoli pretended to examine the label on the wine bottle. "Eighty dollars?"

Isles cocked her head, and if Rizzoli didn't know better, she'd say the doctor was puzzled. "You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure...well, not sure, but...you know what I mean. How far off am I?"

"I continue to be amazed," Isles began slowly, "with your shocking accuracy at matters where you have little to no knowledge of the material."

Rizzoli processed that, and a broad grin quickly leapt onto her face. "Is that your fancy way of saying I'm right on the money?"

Isles sighed, and nodded. Rizzoli snatched up the bottle and held it aloft.

"Oooh, I'm Doctor Isles, and _good wine takes years to truly appreciate_," she chortled, then took a hefty swig from the bottle. "Victory!"

"Hey! That's still an eighty dollar bottle, you know!"

And so they continued, drinking glass after glass as Rizzoli attempted to guess and Isles attempted to hold onto sobriety enough to record the guesses and actual prices. By the sixth bottle, her neat, detailed notes had been reduced to sets of Roman numerals.

"Only you," Rizzoli smirked, "Only you would think Roman whatsits are simpler than real numbers."

"Roman numerals _are_ real numbers, Jane, they're just from a dead language."

"That explains why you like them so much!" Rizzoli laughed, and it had to have been the alcohol working on her mind because Isles not only understood the joke, but found herself laughing too. Uncontrollably.

"I think we'd had ought to stop now, as medically safe levels of inebriation has - have been reached," Isles's voice trailed off as she watched Rizzoli take another swig from one of the cheaper bottles, set it back on the table, brush some hair out of her eyes, then look back at her...

"Maura?"

"Yeah, Jane?"

"You're staring at me."

Isles froze, and forced her hazy mind to break free of the fog for just a moment to calculate a logical reply.

"Sorry, I was just thinking and I sort of, you know, the phrase, I can't think of it-"

"Zoned out?"

"Yeah, that. I was just thinking about toasting and toast and how the ancient Romans…how the ancient Romans put burnt toast in their wine glasses to improve flavor, and whoever got the last sip got the toast."

Rizzoli blinked twice, and then laughed. "Is it just me or would that have sounded just as crazy sober?"

Isles laughed with her, relieved to have changed the subject so smoothly, and slowly got to her feet. The focus on standing, however, resulted in her loosening the grip on her notebook, which slid out of her hands and clattered onto the table, knocking over one of the more expensive bottles of white.

"Goddamnit," Isles muttered, and stumbled towards the kitchen for a towel. When she returned, it was Rizzoli's turn to stare at her.

"Did you just swear?"

"What?"

"You definitely just swore! Under your breath, just now. You definitely did." Rizzoli reaffirmed gleefully.

"Well, you don't need to get so excited about it. Words are just the phonetic combination of a limited vowel of sets and consonant sound speech units." Isles huffed, kneeling down in an attempt to salvage the carpet. "Hang on, that didn't come out right. A limited set of vowels...and consonant speech sound units."

Isles grinned triumphantly, and when Rizzoli didn't reply she turned her head to tease her about zoning out...only to find that she had dozed off on the couch, the now empty wine bottle still clutched in her slender fingers. Isles carefully pried it loose and set the bottle back on the table along with the now soaked dishtowel.

"Miss 'Never That Impressed By It'," Isles said with a very Rizzoli-like smirk, and headed on quite unstable footing to her bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Chapter Two; I originally imagined this all as a very long one-shot, but I felt like the natural break of action would be best served with a break in chapters...of course, now it's looking like three chapters instead. Also, now that I know that people are reading...I'm a little nervous. What do you think is going to happen? I don't want to disappoint...

Disclaimer: If I owned R&I, Angela would have started an Italian bakery in the very first episode known to food critics far and wide as "The Rizzoli Cannoli" [why, yes, that is a joke, please feel free to humor me (get it?) with a chuckle].

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><p>The fog grew heavier as the alcohol settled quite comfortably into the various lobes and cortices of Isles's brain, but sleep (quite frustratingly) eluded her. She ended up turned on her side with her back to the door and was just starting to feel relaxed enough to drift off to sleep when her door creaked open.<p>

Isles went rigid, trying to keep her heart from thudding even louder than it already was. Although it was highly doubtful that the intruder was a bloodthirsty murderer intent on killing her, the thought refused to leave her already entangled mind, and she tried to think, think, damnit, of possible options for action.

Run? Not likely. She probably wouldn't get two feet before falling on her face, or the stranger might very well just shoot her where she stood. No, all logic - even the small amount that remained with her - convinced her that remaining stationary was the only responsible choice.

Her fears were assuaged immediately when the respective quiet thuds of phone, gun, and finally badge resounded from the nightstand behind her, and Rizzoli climbed into bed. There was a moment of silence, and then-

"Hey. Hey, Maura. Hey. You awake?" Rizzoli whispered, which sounded like something between a hyena snoring and a cat hissing. It occurred to Isles at that moment that Bostonian-Italians were not used to whispering, and only replied in an attempt to make her stop.

"Mm."

"Gimme some of the blanket. Your couch is almost worse than mine."

At that, Isles flipped over to face her, and if she'd been less intoxicated the proximity sensors in her head would be blaring.

"My couch is _brilliant_." Isles hissed back adamantly. "In fact, my couch could ace the MCATs, the LSATs, and prepare an elegant eleven course meal in the time it would take your couch to..."

There was a strange look on Rizzoli's face that made Isles lose her train of thought...something like admiration? That didn't seem right, unless her point was going across better than she thought. She desperately tried to pick it back up, adding, "...to just sit there and..." before trailing off again. They lay there in total silence for a moment, until-

"Jane?"

"Yeah, Maura?"

"You're staring at me."

"Huh?" Rizzoli let the words process, and just before she launched forward into the beginning of an explanation, Isles thought she saw a flush tint her cheeks in the dim light that seeped in from the half open door. "I think I just zoned out, 'cause I was thinking about, you know, those ancient guys and their-"

Isles jolted when the detective stopped abruptly and lifted her head off of her pillow.

"Ah, fuck it," Rizzoli muttered, and, with that same unnatural accuracy that Isles had complimented a mere hour earlier, swooped forward and closed the space between them.

The kiss only lasted a few moments, before Rizzoli pulled back. Isles resisted the urge to check her pulse and record what she was sure was a record high.

"I am not entirely sure why you did that." Isles said slowly. It wasn't a complete lie, but it was enough of one that Rizzoli pounced on it immediately.

"Oh, come on, like you weren't looking at me like that earlier. And don't even try to deny it, we both know you're a terrible liar."

In any other state, Isles would have been more than capable of finding a way of extracting herself from the situation cleanly and efficiently, but the kiss had send a jolt of electricity to her brain, igniting a veritable Molotov cocktail with the alcohol that lie in wait there...and it made her not want to. Instead, she did what she knew, logically, was both inevitable and unexpected: she returned the favor, taking Rizzoli by surprise, but not enough to keep her from reciprocating.

When they finally broke for air, Isles took a stab at stating the obvious.

"We must be really drunk,"

"I know," Rizzoli replied with a dazed smile. God, that smile.

"So...that makes this okay?"

"Does it have to?"

"I don't...I don't know...no?" Isles thought for a second. "I've confused myself."

Rizzoli laughed, brushing a thumb against the corner of Isles's mouth. "Obviously."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sad to say this'll be the last chapter; this has actually been a lot of fun to write. I teetered back and forth on whether I was going to make this full on M rated or not, but seeing as I've never even done that before for hetero characters I'm not sure how I'd do with the Doc and the Detective...so I'd rather not risk it. Instead, you'll get a little perspective jump to that of my favorite character. He's underused in fanfiction, even though he provides a lot of the subtle realism that gives the show such great character. Also, lemme know how you liked it; I kinda want to do another one of these.

Disclaimer: One day, when I'm a screenwriter for television, I'll be able to write fanfiction and actually put that I own the characters, or at the very least created them. That day is not today.

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><p>Rizzoli must have been in quite a hurry, he thought to himself as he left the Dirty Robber, seeing as the cop had left her wallet so carelessly behind in the booth. A knock at her door proved futile, and it was only then that he remembered her following Dr. Isles out of the bar like she was being forced to go to yoga again...so they were probably at the doctor's house.<p>

A quick flip through the dated address book in his glove compartment and he was driving again. If he didn't think the detective would resent him for holding on to it, he would have just taken the wallet home. But no; Rizzoli was very particular about keeping a firm hold on all things that pointed to her personal life (particularly after that incident with Hoyt), and several photos of her family in the display portion of the wallet made him think she'd want it back tonight. Only the next day did he realize how unfounded on any sort of logic this decision was.

He knocked once, twice, and a third time on the doctor's door with no response, then tried the knob purely on reflex and was surprised when it gave. It was that and only that fact that made him worry a little; there were crazy people in Boston, crazy, stalkery people, and they broke into houses like it was a right and not a felony to do so...so he opened the door quietly and squeezed through as small of a crack as he could make.

He surveyed the scene with scrutinous eyes: six bottles of wine on the coffee table, and two glasses - so Rizzoli was definitely here.

"Hello?" he called. "Dr. Isles?"

"Jesus Christ!" came the reply, from down a hallway to his right. Rizzoli's voice. He swallowed hard. In trouble, just like he had guessed, and now he was going to get yelled at again as if he were one of her brothers. He inched his way down the hall, wallet in hand, until he saw a door cracked open at the end of the hall, and got just close enough to be able to peek inside...

and whip back out of sight like a bat out of hell. Surely his beer at the Dirty Robber had been spiked with some brand new hallucinogen, because he certainly couldn't have seen what he'd thought he'd saw...

"God, Maura..."

The husky moan confirmed it. Frost peeked around the corner for another look: Rizzoli's knees trembling, hands clutching at the sheets...and that certainly couldn't be the Queen of the Dead laying between her legs, focused on her work as if it was the most important body she could ever examine...only this time, her work didn't make him sick to his stomach. Fumbling for his phone, he activated the camera setting, prayed that one shot would be all he needed, and-

CLICK. Frost, in a perfect personification of his name, froze as the automated sound rang out, slamming into his ears like a freight train. The detective and the doctor didn't even notice...he smirked. Hell, he wouldn't either in a position like that...looking at the picture, his smirk faded as he realized how dangerous this was. He was beyond dead if he was caught in the hallway, and between Rizzoli and Isles, it would be decades before the body was discovered, long murdered and mutilated and hidden in some cage at the local zoo.

Frost forced himself to leave the wallet outside the bedroom door, even though (by Rizzoli's moans) it sounded like things were just getting to the good part. Back in his car, he admired the picture again, then shook his head with a laugh and a "crazy kids", before pulling out into the midnight Boston streets.

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><p>The bullpen was a raucous mess; a new case had just been called in, and Korsak had adopted three new kittens from the gutter behind the station before Frost had even gotten there.<p>

"Mornin', kid," Korsak called as he tried to get the kittens to walk up his arm and over his shoulders in a single file line.

"Morning. Rizzoli make it in yet?"

"Nah, she called me and said she was gonna be late. Too much to drink at the Robber, apparently."

"Apparently," Frost echoed, knowing that his life depended on concealing the information he was hoarding. It didn't work; Korsak took one look and set the kittens down.

"I know that look," Korsak mused slowly, facing him down with that Boston cop stare that broke grown men on a daily basis. "You've got a secret, and it's a good one. Spill."

As Frost opened his mouth to deny it, Rizzoli rolled in like a hurricane, a cardboard tray bearing coffee in one hand and her phone pressed to her ear in the other.

"No, ma, I don't. Well, I'm sorry, I was out late, so I didn't even check my answering machine. Why didn't you just call my cell if it was so impor- yes, yes, I-" Rizzoli rolled her eyes to no one in particular as she set the tray down. "Yes. No. Extremely, very much no. Tell him I've got other plans...I don't care, ma, make something up! You've had lots of pract- okay. Love you too."

With that, and an extra, "Jesus Christ," Rizzoli flipped the phone shut and huffed before announcing, "It's nobody's business and I don't want to talk about it."

Frost nodded fearfully, while Korsak simply set a bottle of aspirin on the desk. She snatched it up, popped four back, took a swig of her coffee, and collapsed into a chair. Korsak mouthed, "Hangover," to Frost, who resisted a second urge to grin as the ding of the elevator heralded Isles's arrival. Holding up Rizzoli's wallet. Frost nearly choked on his coffee.

"You left this by the register downstairs; I'd take better care of it if I were you; in 2011 it was calculated that 8.1 million people fell prey to identity theft." she paused, expecting a retort. When it didn't come, Isles continued, "I have the address for the crime scene; warehouse by the wharf. Beautiful place, really - from an aesthetic standpoint I can understand why the culprit would select te location as a hunting ground for-"

"Okay, Googlemouth, enough of that," Rizzoli cut her off, gripping her forehead like a stress toy, "No more guinea pig experiments with my palate, you hear me?"

Frost cocked an eyebrow at Korsak, who returned it, and they both turned to Isles who deflected the looks to Rizzoli. Rizzoli scowled.

"It was a wine-tasting, you pervs. I passed out on her couch before midnight, and that's all I want to hear about it. We've got a murder to solve, got it?"

"Yes ma'am," Frost replied, grabbing his coat. He trailed slightly behind Isles on their way out of the bullpen, and he murmured to her, "What really happened?"

Isles blinked, and said quietly, "I believe that a phenomenon called anterograde amnesia occurred due to her high intake of alcohol which impaired the ability of her medial temporal lobe to create memories after the occurrence."

Frost processed the statement, then rolled his eyes. "And I suppose your medical tempura lobe was affected too?"

"I believe that a certain amount of impairment, though perhaps less than hers, occurred, yes."

Frost shook his head as the elevator doors opened, and muttered, "I'll bet that's not all that was impaired," before filing in behind Rizzoli and Isles.

Of course, the funny thing about memory is that the strangest things seem to stick, even when drowned in fancy wine, so that two weeks later, when Hoyt escaped from prison and Rizzoli was back in that same bed again, the both of them stared at the ceiling, each remembering, and each afraid to admit it...for now.


End file.
